


7A WF 83429 (the For A Good Time Call remix)

by openhearts



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fuck Or Die, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:23:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openhearts/pseuds/openhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being Captain America’s plus one sounded infinitely more awesome in theory than it turned out to be in practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	7A WF 83429 (the For A Good Time Call remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victoria_p (musesfool)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/gifts).
  * Inspired by [7A WF 83429](https://archiveofourown.org/works/562412) by [victoria_p (musesfool)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p). 
  * In response to a prompt by [victoria_p (musesfool)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p) in the [remixmadness2014](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixmadness2014) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> no safe story; many fandoms, including MCU, DCU, HP, Firefly, SPN, Dark Angel, and Ocean's 11.

Like all SHIELD-sponsored formal events, this one is classy, expensive, and boring. Everywhere there are dark suits with limp pocket squares and solid dark ties, ankle-length chiffon overlay dresses, and food that manages to be simultaneously delicious and totally unsatisfying. Darcy shoves another shrimp-goat-cheese-red-pepper crostini in her mouth and chews dejectedly before downing the rest of her champagne. Being Captain America’s plus one sounded infinitely more awesome in theory than it turned out to be in practice since it means she can’t cut out after an hour without being missed. Now hour three has rolled around and she’s given up standing at Steve’s side nodding and smiling. Steve’s the epitome of a gentleman but even he couldn’t dodge shop talk all night long. As much as a PoliSci major should be interested in all of it, Darcy’s always been a little more theoretically-inclined when it comes to her studies. Like how she theoretically still calls herself a PoliSci major even though she has pretty much no need of a degree now that she’s in SHIELD's pocket.

Darcy sets her glass down, tugs her dress up, and gives the bartender an appreciative finger gun when he slides another champagne in front of her. Jane wanders by, deep in conversation with an older man that includes lots of hand motions and Darcy snags her away to say hi. Jane launches into an explanation of what she’s planning to work on and Darcy loses focus as usual, liberally sipping on her champagne. A headache comes on quickly, but it’s not her usual buzz headache, it’s like water flowing over her whole head and down her neck and shoulders, but the water is made of pain.

“What?” Jane interrupts herself. Darcy grabs her arm, suddenly woozy.

“You said something about water,” Jane repeats.

“It’s made of pain,” Darcy says, and she vaguely registers that she’s clutching at Jane’s arm as the pain flows down her other arm and through her fingers. It’s worse than pins and needles, worse than leg cramps, worse than hitting her funny bone, and it’s spreading fast. “Jane it hurts.”

“What hurts? What is it? Where?”

“Everywhere,” Darcy repeats not realizing how loud she says it until Jane steps in close and glances around them quickly. 

“Okay, can you walk? I want to get you out of here, okay?”

Darcy’s starting to double over, curling in on herself with her arms wrapped around her middle and suddenly Natasha is there and she and Jane are helping Darcy up and ushering her quickly somewhere else. Darcy can’t keep track of where they’re going, but being up and moving oddly seems to help even though the pain keeps moving, settling deeper and deeper in her stomach and the joints of her hips until it’s hard to get her legs to move with each step.

Natasha literally kicks a door open, calling over her shoulder to someone to, “Shut up, get Coulson right now, go.”

That’s when Darcy starts freaking out.

“Why Coulson?” she asks as Jane and Natasha sit her down in what turns out to be the coatroom Darcy notices before the pain seems to triple, firing through her back and arms like what she imagines actual bullets would feel like.

Jane starts to panic too, Darcy can tell even when the pain reaches her knees and she’s sure they’re actually exploding, joints twisting and ripping apart and this deep, pure, relentless pain radiating through her towards her feet. She’s sagging off the armless chair they sat her in and Jane helps her to sit and then lay on the floor with her head on Jane’s lap.

The screaming in her ears quiets enough with Jane’s hands resting softly on her temples, her fingertips rubbing slow circles while she tries to answer Jane’s rapid-fire questions in an unsteady voice.

She’s asking what Darcy had eaten and drank, alternating between talking to Natasha who’s on her cell phone.

“Anyone, alright, get Banner, get Rogers, get anyone,” she barks at the shaken coat room attendant who’s standing in the doorway again, Coulson-less. A moment later Steve comes in and then he’s crouching on the floor next to Darcy, hands on her arms gently as he watches her with concern. 

Darcy’s never been a crybaby even though she doesn’t think of herself as particularly tough even after completing SHIELD's mandatory self-defense training, but she’s never felt pain this intense before and it’s literally almost everywhere on and inside her body, pulsing and flashing and she starts crying, suddenly gripped with the realization of how very very wrong this is.

“Why is this happening?” she manages weakly, looking up at Jane and Steve and Natasha, and they’re all helplessly quiet.

“We’re going to find out,” Steve says firmly, resting a big hand on her cheek. She flinches at first, but the contact feels okay even though she can’t even bring herself to move her neck to nod.

Coulson comes in then, and Darcy catches a few snippets of the hushed conferencing between him and Natasha about surveillance footage before Steve gets up to join them and she’s hit with another wave of splitting, crushing, screaming pain.

She loses focus on everything, anything but the slight comfort of Jane sitting with her still, hands on her shoulders now. At some point Steve comes over and picks her up, telling her quietly that they’re taking her to the Med wing, and she closes her eyes once they leave the room, briefly able to hold on to the thought that if all thousand people at this godforsaken thing are going to see her getting lugged around by Captain America like some tragic nameless civilian on the cover of a comic book she’s not going to try to catalogue it for her memory.

Steve sets her down eventually on a gurney and after that she doesn’t know how long it is until Jane is next to her, putting her hands on the sides of Darcy’s face to make Darcy look at her.

“Darcy we think you’ve been given a drug that’s causing the pain, I need to prick your finger to test your blood.”

Darcy’s not sure what noise she makes but it must be positive because Jane sticks one of her fingers and squeezes out a fat drop of blood onto a paper strip coming out of a little black thing with a StarkMed logo on the side. Jane puts a bandaid on Darcy’s finger. Coulson’s swiping and jabbing at a Stark-issue tablet with Steve standing at his shoulder, glancing between the tablet and Darcy warily.

“You, out here,” Coulson says, pulling Steve out of the room with him. Before the door closes he catches Natasha’s eye and says a jumble of letters and numbers to her with a nod to Darcy.

“Motherfuckers,” Natasha mutters before looking back at Darcy. “Hold her head, like this,” she tells Jane, and Natasha puts her hands on Darcy’s jaw too. Darcy works on focusing on Natasha’s quiet strained voice and somehow finds it possible even while the rest of her screams and burns louder and hotter with every passing minute.

“Darcy, you were given a drug that scrambles the messages your nerves carry to your brain and blocks the release of endorphins in response to pain. That’s why you’re in pain, and why it gets better where you’re being touched. The quickest way to counteract it is to work with the drug and use intimate physical contact to trigger your brain back into releasing endorphins. Do you understand?”

Nerves, pain, contact, hormones. She understands the words. Darcy grits out something affirmative.

“When you were hired by SHIELD you filled out a form granting consent to sexual stimulation in the event it’s necessary to prevent your death, dismemberment, or disability, and you named Steve as your authorized partner, do you remember that?”

“What?” Darcy half-laughs. She doesn’t remember that, not until the phrasing clicks and she remembers jauntily scrawling “Captain America” in the blank because that was a thing that was ever going to happen. Except for the lack of endorphins the whole thing is starting to sound like a joke. “I thought I was getting hazed, that was real? I have to have sex or I’ll- what? It’ll make the pain go away?”

“Yes. Hormones released with orgasm counteract the drug you were given. I’m going to find the people that did this to you.”

It doesn’t even sound like a threat coming from Natasha, it sounds like the closest thing to reassurance Darcy can really wrap her head around right now.

“Okay,” Darcy murmurs, and it hits her all over again that someone, some person did this to her and that knowledge makes the pain worse, makes it feel like an insidious violation, like there’s something sentient inside her that’s working on swallowing her whole, gnawing and chewing and crushing. A fresh wave of tears wells up in her eyes and she starts to panic and shudder, the pain changing from heat to cold making her brain fuzzy and slow.

“Listen to me,” Natasha says, “we have to act quickly, the pain is going to keep getting worse and you could go into shock. Coulson is briefing Steve right now, if there’s anyone else you want me to call you I need to know now.”

“No,” Darcy says still reeling and weak, but sure of that one thing. “No, it can be Steve.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, nodding before she calls over her shoulder through the door, “We’re a go,” and then she and Jane are leaving, Darcy’s curling into the fetal position, clutching her head and feeling like she got dropped on a pile of broken glass.

Then Steve’s there, hovering over her.

“Tasha, secure the room,” he calls over his shoulder.

“What room?” Natasha asks back, and Steve nods to her before turning back to Darcy. 

His hands are big and warm like always, but now they’re shaking a little, stroking down her arms. Darcy manages to take one of his hands and bring it up to cradle her head like Natasha had been doing. It makes it easier, makes it possible to think and focus when she locks eyes with him.

“Coulson explained what’s happening. I’m so sorry,” he says softly.

“It hurts so bad,” she manages to whisper. There are the tears again, confusion and fear and helplessness washing over her like a wave and becoming clearer and sharper when Steve edges onto the gurney and gathers her up into her arms, pulling her half onto his lap when he sits her up and wraps his arms around her.

It gets quieter, the shrieking and groaning in her head, and while she starts to feel safe for the first time since that wrong feeling hit her and the pain started crawling through her body, she’s gripped with embarrassment, with shame that this is happening to her. It pisses her off that she feels that way, that some part of her is so scared and out of control that she feels ashamed, and it charges her with a tiny bit of strength, enough to wrap her arms around Steve’s waist and hold on, burrowing closer to the soft numbing quiet that seems like it’s radiating out of him and into her. She sobs out a groan of relief and Steve reaches down to tug her legs up so she’s tucked into a ball on his lap and he rests his chin on her forehead, spreads his hands over her back and her legs and holds her tightly for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” Darcy says weakly. The initial relief is already starting to recede.

“What? No. This isn’t your fault, you were attacked by someone evil and we’re going to find them, I promise.”

“I don’t understand why they would do this to me, I’m not that important, I don’t even understand half of what Jane’s doing.” 

“We’ll find out.” He kisses her forehead and his fingers on her leg stroke absent-mindedly, slipping under the slit in her skirt. Darcy feels the contact like a jolt and without thinking she reaches down and flattens his whole hand on her leg, shoving her skirt up her thigh to bare more skin for him to touch.

“Oh,” Steve blurts, and even though he sounds a little unsure his hand on her thigh is firm, and he moves his other hand on her back up higher to rest on her skin above the line of her dress. Darcy arches into his touch, tilting her head up and pulling him closer by the back of his neck.

“Does that help?” he murmurs cautiously, and Darcy nods, pulling him in until their mouths crash together unceremoniously. It’s flat and awkward for a moment but then Steve’s hand on her thigh strokes upwards, a warm sweep of skin and she doesn’t care that she hadn’t shaved above the knees and he’s got a handful of stubble right now.

Darcy turns in Steve’s arms, finally moving under her own power again, and he moves with her to straighten his legs out so she can straddle his lap. The lost contact overwhelms her, pain coming back like each of her ribs snapping in two and she whimpers and collapses against him. Steve crushes her close again, pressing her to his chest, and she arches her hips to grind against his. He lurches forward a little at the contact, but he groans into her mouth too, tongue hot and eager on hers, and the lightning bolting through Darcy’s stomach softens and melts into gentle warmth the more she moves against him.

Steve’s hands are busy but still somehow polite, moving from cupping her jaw to stroking down her arms to sliding from her waist up her back and into her hair. Every time his skin touches hers it’s like cool water on a sunburn, like the sensation is sinking in deep and pulling the poison out through her skin. Darcy reaches back and unzips her dress. The straps keep it up in front, but her back is bare down to her hips now except for her bra and Steve follows her wordless instruction and slides his hands firmly over her skin, pausing on the small of her back when she groans and nods. His hands slide lower, fingers spread beneath her dress to rest over her underwear at the top of her ass and hold her more firmly against him. She’s surprised by it, at the clear want it communicates, but at the same time a flash of relief hits her, there and then gone, but it still makes her gasp.

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs, starting to move his hands back to her waist, but she shakes her head and pulls his arms back around her.

“No no no, don’t stop, that was good.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, suddenly feeling cautious when she adds, “do it again?”

He does, hands gripping brashly and moving her against him so she can feel his dick hard pressed between them and she lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched moan and clutches at his shoulders. They lock eyes, and Darcy’s gaze flickers when a little rush of pain bolts through her middle. She slides her hands down from his shoulders and pushes his jacket off, bracing herself and breathing deeply through the pain when he takes his arms from around her to shrug it off. She has to stop tugging at his tie to just fist her hands and breath deeply, eyes closed as the pain seeps through her and takes hold of her bones. Steve yanks off his tie and makes quick work of the buttons of his shirt before whipping that off too, tossing it aside before pulling Darcy back to cradle her against his chest while she draws in shaky breaths.

“I’m here. I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

She takes a deep breath and nods and he leans in and kisses her. He keeps one hand cradling her head while he moves the other one back to her thigh and upwards, under the bunched up material of her skirt rucked up to her hips. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, repeating it as he grips briefly at her hip and sweeps his thumb out along the crotch of her underwear. When she whimpers and moves into his touch he moves his hand and presses with the pads of his fingers. “Move,” he says softly, “go ahead, just use my hand and-” he cuts off with a groan when Darcy grinds down onto his hand, eyes shut tight and her hands clasped around the back of his neck.

It works to some degree, it’s a pinpoint oasis that grows the more she moves, but the pain moves too, growing and grabbing more and more of her. She tugs at Steve’s shoulders and he gets the message, anchoring an arm around her waist and flipping them both over so she’s on her back on the gurney and he’s above her. The upheaval of moving and the renewed stabbing agony that digs in everywhere he had been touching her before has her clenching her teeth and letting out a guttural strangled scream but then Steve’s on her, his body covering hers, guiding her legs to circle his hips, moving an arm under her head and leaning down to press his mouth along her neck and catch his breath.

Darcy can feel Steve trying to keep his hips still so she mumbles, “more, I need you to-” as she presses her calves against the backs of his thighs and slides her hands to his lower back. He obliges, eyes closed when he presses her legs open wider and circles his hips and she digs her nails into his skin and groans at the cool wave of relief that flows through her.

“Oh my god,” she moans, moving her hips with his, and Steve lets out an actual whimper, his breath erratic against her neck. Darcy tilts her head back and arches up into him, murmuring, “more, more, please,” scratching lightly at his lower back and gasping when his hips snap sharply this time.

“Sorry,” he mutters, reaching down to smooth a hand over her hip in apology.

“It’s good, don’t be gentle. It’s better.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods and presses her hand over his on her hip before pulling it between her legs again, guiding his fingers with hers. She shows him how to move, how hard to press, and he’s a quick study but it’s not enough. Darcy brushes his hand away for a moment to strip her underwear down and off before yanking his hand back to where it was, ignoring the flash of awkwardness that grips her for a split second when his fingers stutter against her. But then he’s stroking and circling, and his mouth on her neck isn’t just pressing in what could be called a polite kiss, he’s sucking below her ear and tracing his tongue along the line of her jaw as he works his way up to her mouth.

One searing, wet kiss later Steve’s fingers slip down and dip just barely inside her like he’s asking permission and she shakes her head and hears herself whispering “fuck me,” and scraping her nails across the back of his neck. 

Steve lets out a weak grunt and slides a finger inside her, pulling back just enough to make eye contact.

“God, yes,” she groans.

“Okay,” he answers, but he doesn’t stop the motion of his hand, and he lingers and kisses back over her jaw to her neck again and she tips her head back and arches into his touch, realizing in the moment of calm that spreads through her that this is happening, it’s her and Steve and they don’t ever get to take this back. She shivers and arches up into him and tries not to whimper too much when he pulls his hand away to fish in his pocket and produces a strip of condoms.

“Coulson,” he mutters in explanation and she closes her eyes. 

“God,” she mumbles, and she can feel herself blushing at the thought of the original jack booted iPod stealer sending Steve in here with a handful of rubbers. She concentrates on helping Steve push down his dress pants and white cotton boxers and then decides to completely ignore propriety and reach down to run her hands from the backs of his thighs up over his ass to grip at his lower back and smiles for the first time since this bizarre dream began when he jumps and lets out a nervous laugh at the touch.

“No?” she asks.

“Yes, yes,” he answers emphatically, and she’s smiling when he kisses her. She reaches down to wrestle out of her dress and he helps slide it down her legs once she’s wiggled it down over her hips and then she’s wrapping her legs back around his waist and he’s lining up and pushing inside her and everything crashes together.

She still hurts, but it’s not everywhere, and she’s wrapped around Steve and he’s deep inside her, groaning in her ear with every stroke, and if the pain isn’t going away it’s at least getting smaller, becoming confined and something like manageable.

“Just let me know what, um, what I should do,” he says, still moving, but braced up on one arm so he can look at her. Darcy had been concentrating on the sweet cool relief flowing over her skin everywhere they touched, but she realizes quickly what he means.

She nods and leans up to kiss him, reaching down to slow his hips slightly, pulling him in firmly until his hips hit the backs of her thighs with every thrust. She slides one of her hands between them too and it takes a bit to find a good rhythm, to coordinate so he doesn’t crush her hand, but then it does work. The tension and awkwardness start to melt away and Steve’s kissing her neck again, rocking in and out of her and palming at her hip and thigh and all at once it’s happening.

It’s like cannonballing into a cold pool or flipping the lights on in a pitch black room - her orgasm flashes through her suddenly and completely and the pain is just gone, chased out of every corner of her body by a heady warm lightness.

She’s shivering all over as she starts to come down, far more exhausted and limp than she can ever remember being before. Steve’s saying her name and stroking his thumb over her cheek so she forces her eyes open and looks up at him hazily.

“Was that-”

“Oh yes,” she murmurs seriously and Steve grins and glances away to compose himself. 

“What about the pain?”

She pauses and takes a little inventory. “I’m kind of numb? It doesn’t hurt but it’s not . . . it’s not normal.”

Steve pulls out, watching her carefully as he first starts to move away, but she just lays still and slack without a trace of the tension from earlier, so he rolls to sit up and dispose of the condom. He sits for a moment, head bowed, quiet, rubbing one palm against the other.

Darcy reaches up and trails a fingertip over his forearm. When he looks over she’s watching him through slitted eyes. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “I filled that form out thinking it was a joke, I didn’t even remember it until Natasha told me. I mean you didn’t need to do this, I-”

He shakes his head. “Darcy?”

“Hm?”

“I’m glad it was me,” he says quietly.

He looks over and cracks a half-smile and Darcy returns it a little incredulously, squinting at him slightly. She rolls her eyes back to look at the ceiling and blows a breath out through pursed lips. She’s trying to come up with something saucy or poignant to say when she gets a twinge behind her right eye. She blinks and it’s gone and she goes back to studying the ceiling and casually ignoring that Steve has slipped one hand into hers. She’s almost ready to end the beginning-to-be-awkward silence when the twinge returns, this time as a white-hot stab and she flinches as if it were from a physical blow. Steve’s hovering over her immediately and she forces her eyes open and glances up at him apologetically.

“Round two,” she mutters.

Steve laces their fingers together and as he moves to crawl over her again he presses her hand above her head into the thin pillow. He kisses her forehead over each of her eyebrows, then a barely there peck at the tip of her nose before murmuring over her mouth, “happy to serve.”

Darcy huffs out half a laugh before the pain clutches at her throat and she swallows harshly, pulling Steve down to her neck and he dutifully mouths a trail from her jaw down to her collarbones.

This time when Darcy comes it’s a slow build and at first she’s not sure she’ll get there, but after a brief conference Steve effortlessly flips them and wraps his arms around her shoulders, holding her to his chest and driving into her with his feet planted on the mattress. She meets his rhythm and bites his shoulder to keep from being too loud when it hits her, coming on suddenly and then over fast. She collapses on top of him, breathless and feeling more like herself than she has in hours.

“That might have done it,” she murmurs, her voice muffled.

“Yeah?”

“Well,” she turns her head and nudges her nose against the side of his neck, “let’s wait a bit to be sure.” Steve laughs softly. When she breathes in he smells like cologne or aftershave - some undefinable clean man-smell - and fresh sweat.

“Listen,” she says after a moment, “I’m not going all psycho stalker or anything, but I think I do owe you dinner or something now.”

He laughs again, and she feels his hand stroke her hair. “Okay.”

“And if you were to put my name on your ‘In Case of Sex Emergency’ paperwork I would not object.”

Steve laughs at her finger quotes, and agrees.


End file.
